


The Story of Your Life

by Incogneet0



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Bardlings - Freeform, Hot Dad Bard, M/M, Metal Head Bofur, Some angst, but lots of snuggles, neurodivergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26902885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incogneet0/pseuds/Incogneet0
Summary: Bard realizes, in hindsight, that the reason he never twigged that Bofur’s brain worked differently is because to Bard, Bofur’s brain is sheer brilliance. He always works out how to make things like chores seem like a game to the kids, so they get done faster. He sings to himself and makes up songs about the ingredients of whatever meal he’s cooking that evening. He does things like this, he says, because he’d “utterly die of boredom doing tasks” if he didn’t. This makes some sense to Bard, because so much of adult life is boring: Taxes, waiting rooms, taking the car for its annual MOT. Things are so much more fun and interesting now that Bofur is in his life. Not to mention easier.The scheduling is when things start to unravel.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Bofur
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	The Story of Your Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/gifts).



> This is set in objectlesson's fabulous House of Durin Metal AU! If you haven't read both long stories in it I highly recommend that you do so, especially All Night Long which is about Bard and Bofur!

The first time Bard notices something is off is when Sigrid asks Bofur what time it is. Well, she doesn’t so much ask as yell, since Bofur is in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the spaghetti sauce so that it doesn’t start spattering onto the kitchen tiling. 

“My phone’s charging at the moment!” comes the reply.

“There’s a wall clock in the kitchen!” Sigrid shouts back, sounding extremely exasperated in a way only 13-year-olds can.

There’s a pause, and then: “If you give me 5 minutes my phone should have enough charge to check.”

Bard would have gotten his own phone out to check the time, but he’s baffled by this conversation. Plus he’s currently being throttled by Bain in a game of checkers while trying to get Tilda not to throw cushions at them in the middle of a game. Still, the continued silence from the kitchen has peaked his curiosity.

At first he thinks Bofur is playing a game with Sigrid, teasing her. But when he pushes open the door to the kitchen he finds Bofur facing away from the stove, looking up at the wall clock with his brows furrowed as he counts on his fingers.

He jumps a little, hat flapping, as if he’s suddenly just realized Bard is there. 

“Are you alright?”

“M’fine,” says Bofur, flashing his crooked grin. “I…oh shit! I forgot the garlic bread!” He swings on his heel and dives headfirst into the fridge, pulling out a double pack of frozen bread from the freezer drawer. 

There’s a shriek from Tilda in the living room, and the clock is forgotten for the evening.

\----------

Days later they are winding down in bed after a long day of child wrangling and work, respectively. 

“I’m sorry they were such a handful today while I was at work,” says Bard, softly.

“Babe. Don’t sweat it. You shouldn’t _apologize_. You said it yourself, they’re _our_ kids.”

“I know…I just, I can see how tired you are sometimes.”

“Like you aren’t? You’re perpetually tired. You’re the most tired man in the _universe_. You work two jobs, in case you’ve forgotten and I’m still _looking_ for one. It’ll take some of the pressure off you when I finally land one.” He sounds wistful as he finishes his sentence.

“You’ll find one,” says Bard, gently pushing Bofur’s bangs away from his face so he can see him better. “And there’s no rush. These things take time.”

Bofur makes a noise that sounds like a whimper. “Full disclosure: but I’ve never been very good at job interviews. Especially the questions about organisation.”

“You aced my job interview, clearly,” says Bard, cupping Bofur’s face and leaning in so he can nuzzle his mustache. “Made a _very_ good impression, in fact. Highly commendable if I may say so.”

“Yeah well that’s probably because you didn’t ask any dumb questions like ‘what is your greatest weakness?’ and ‘where do you see yourself in 5 years?’ because trust me, I would have struggled to come up with impressive answers to those.”

“Doubtful” says Bard, still nuzzling Bofur, though by now he has moved down to his neck. “So. Where do you see yourself in 5 years _now_?”

Bofur squirms and grins at the feel of Bard’s stubble scraping against his skin. They both know the answer.

\----------

Bard realizes, in hindsight, that the reason he never twigged that Bofur’s brain worked differently is because to Bard, Bofur’s brain is sheer brilliance. He always works out how to make things like chores seem like a game to the kids, so they get done faster. He sings to himself and makes up songs about the ingredients of whatever meal he’s cooking that evening. He does things like this, he says, because he’d “utterly die of boredom doing tasks” if he didn’t. This makes some sense to Bard, because so much of adult life is boring: Taxes, waiting rooms, taking the car for its annual MOT. Things are so much more fun and interesting now that Bofur is in his life. Not to mention easier. 

\----------

The scheduling is where things start to unravel. Bofur is brilliant at keeping to _Bard’s_ written schedule. That’s not the problem. The problem is when Bard suggests that Bofur fill in this month’s calendar page with tasks. “It’s just the usual stuff,” says Bard, when Bofur looks a little perturbed. “Like picking the kids up from school etc. I’ll give you details about my work shifts, of course.”

“Right,” says Bofur, grinning as he takes the pen and yellow legal pad with Bard’s shift info on it from him. “Did you throw the previous calendar page away?”

“I did. Do we still need it?”

Bofur’s eyes seem to dart around frantically and he licks his lips. 

“Is something wrong?”

“I just…I’ve never done this before. Writing out you and your kid’s life plans. What if I do it wrong?”

Bard leans in and gives him a peck on the cheek. “ _Our_ kids, remember? You’re part of the family. Besides,” he says, grabbing a mug from the cupboard to make a cup of coffee, “It’s impossible to do it wrong. Just add things like Sigrid’s grief counselling appointments, and stuff like that. Just work around our usual plans and fill in grocery runs we should do and the like. No biggie.” 

“Of…of course,” says Bofur. He smiles and it looks genuine, so Bard says nothing. An hour or so later the new schedule is up on the kitchen wall.

\----------

The next day, Bard leans over to look at it while pouring himself some cereal and is surprised by how much is squeezed into each day. His schedule usually looks pretty succinct. Bofur’s schedule says things like:

7am-8:30am Get kids ready for school  
8:30-9:00 Drive kids to school  
9:00-9:30 drive home  
9:30-10:00 Tidy kitchen

and so on. The handwriting is tiny and if Bard wasn’t so puzzled he’d be impressed at how much Bofur had managed to squeeze into one tiny daily square. 

Furthermore, there are no social engagements that he can see on the calendar. Bard knows that Bofur usually meets Thorin and Bilbo for coffee at least fortnightly for coffee. Maybe they just hadn’t let him know when yet? 

Finally, he shrugs and puts it all down to Bofur’s brilliance again. After all, Bofur’s so good at keeping Bard’s life organised he is sure something will be figured out.

But on Friday, everything comes to a head. Bard has the evening off from working at The White Horse and he comes home to the smell of good home cooking. He smiles to himself as he hangs up his coat. He can hear the kids in the living room laughing at an episode of Aggretsuko, which Bofur had introduced them all to when he moved in. Tilda has leapt off the couch and runs into the hallway and into Bard’s arms. “Da!”

“How many times do I have to tell you that you’re getting much too big for that?” he says, though his voice is soft. Everything about him feels softer with Bofur in his life. More easy-going. 

Tilda clings to the ends of his hair. “How was your day?” he asks her. 

“Oh,” she says. “It was good, but…” She hesitates.

Bard arches his eyebrows. “But?”

“But Bofur cried a little,” she whispers, as if there are spies listening in on the conversation. 

Bard puts her down gently. “Go watch TV,” he says. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Sigrid yelled at him,” she says in the same conspiratorial tone before she runs back to the living to finish watching cartoons. 

Bard is already making his way to the kitchen where he finds Bofur at the table, pushing a salt shaker back and forth with the tips of his thick fingers. Bard wonders if Bofur’s hat always seems to signify his mood or if he’s only imagining it looking more droopy than it usually does and it’s confirmation bias because he knew he’d find an upset Bofur. 

“Soup’s still hot,” says Bofur quietly, not taking his eyes off the salt shaker or stopping the repetitive motion. “I made grilled cheese sandwiches too.”

Bard pulls up a chair and sits next to him. “I’ve been informed that Sigrid yelled at you.”

“Yeah,” confirms Bofur, nodding. “I deserved it, to be fair.”

“What happened?”

Bofur’s eyes close and he takes a deep breath, as if he’s on the chopping block.

“I forgot it was her grief meeting tonight. I didn’t add it to the calendar. And I assumed she knew what day it was. I didn’t realize until she asked me when it was.”

Bard snorts. “That’s hardly your fault. She should have told you. I gave her the dates.”

“I forgot to ask her.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

Bofur looks skeptical and Bard realizes he’s shaking.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What….it’s _okay_. Really, it is. This is just a blip. I’ll talk to her about yelling at you.”

“No, don’t,” says Bofur. “Just leave it. Everything just feels…ugh.” He buries his face in his hands. “I’m just glad I didn’t burn dinner.” 

Bard realizes Bofur looks tired. Very, _very_ tired.

“Listen,” he says, the tone he uses when he feels Bofur’s well-being is non negotiable, “Go and lie down. Maybe have a hot bath and I’ll feed the monsters dinner. I need to talk to them anyway.”

Bofur nods once and gets up from the table like he’s in a daze. He looks like he has no more energy left to argue otherwise. A sudden chill runs down Bard’s back and he’s suddenly afraid that Bofur might not want any part of this life anymore. Maybe this whole thing is too much for him. He pushes that thought down quickly. There’s no need to get paranoid. He’ll talk to Bofur later tonight and see if he’s working himself too hard. He’d promised not to live in ambiguity anymore, for his sake as well as Bofur’s.

He drags the whole story out of the kids while they shovel grilled cheese sandwiches into their mouths. He only manages to piece it together because he’s getting three different accounts and small children are bluntly honest.

\----------

Bard finds Bofur still soaking in the tub, in water that’s going cold, and he leans against the door, watching him. 

“You’re going to turn into a prune,” he jokes, because joking usually makes Bofur perk up. 

“Hope you like wrinkly, raisin dick,” Bofur jokes back, crooked smile flashing, his eyes warm, the lines around them genuine. Bard grabs him a towel and holds it out, and Bofur exits the tub and melts into the fold of it and Bard’s embrace. It’s a big, fluffy towel because Bard wants to make Bofur feel warm and loved, and he aims to do just that for the rest of the evening, whatever it takes. He kisses the top of Bofur’s scruffy head and holds him close.

“You don’t have to,” he says softly, “but if you want to tell me about today and what I can do to make things easier with the kids I’m here to listen.”

Bofur stiffens, and then buries his face in the crook of Bard’s neck, and Bard realizes the initial gesture was Bofur trying to calculate things. He’s come to notice a lot of little things like this about the person he loves. It’s inevitable, when you love someone.

“Do you think I’m a fuckup?” says Bofur eventually, and Bard’s heart aches. 

“Of course I don’t.”

“Then why can’t I do things properly?”

“It was an honest mistake, it could have happened to anyone.”

“No, I mean…I mean _everything_. Not just today.”

“You’re amazing at doing things. I’m not sure what you mean by ‘doing things properly’ because you always seem so good at everything.”

Bofur snorts. “I’m not,” he says. “What I mean is why can’t I do simple, stupid stuff? I go to pieces when I hear a door slam. It feels like a bomb going off in my head, and yet I can listen to Iron Maiden on full blast? I zone out sometimes when people are talking to me. I can’t add numbers in my head. Fuck, Bard. I can’t even read fucking wall clocks. I feel like a fuckin’ idiot sometimes. I know you think I’m not stupid. But if I’m not then why can’t I do things like that? And today, I just got…so overwhelmed. Because one thing fell off schedule and then it felt like I was behind on everything, so I was late picking up the kids, then I forgot Sigrid’s meeting and I ended up making canned soup for dinner because everything felt like too much.”

The worry that Bofur might not want a life of co-parenting surfaces, fresh in Bard’s chest, and once again he pushes it down. He furrows his brow, trying to sort through the mess of emotions he’s feeling while Bofur pulls on his pyjamas. He really shouldn’t have assumed Bofur was some invincible, juggernaut of energy, even if it feels like he is sometimes because he just seems so brilliant to Bard. He suddenly feels very selfish. He watches Bofur climb into bed and pull the covers over his lower half.

Bofur’s words keep repeating in his mind: _Fuck, Bard. I can’t even read fucking wall clocks. I feel like a fuckin’ idiot._

He stares at Bofur. 

“What?” 

“Could it be something like a learning disability?”

“You mean like dyslexia?”

“Maybe. Something like that.”

“I can read just fine. The words don’t float off the page or anything. I do sometimes flip numbers in my head when I write them down though.”

“I think that’s related to dyslexia.”

“Doesn’t explain the rest of my fuck-uppedness,” says Bofur, somewhat stubbornly.

Bard grabs his laptop and climbs into bed next to him. “I’m serious,” says Bard. Somehow he feels like this is the right thread. It might not have occurred to him if Bofur had not mentioned the clock, but it feels right. “There’s all sorts of learning disabilities. It does NOT make you stupid.” He pulls up Wikipedia and types in: ‘Category: Learning disabilities.’ They both feel immediately overwhelmed when the page loads and they’re greeted with about 70 entries in alphabetical order.

“Well,” Bard says. We don’t need to look at each of them _tonight_ …maybe…”

“Give me the laptop,” says Bofur, wriggling his fingers. He starts pulling up each page, but instead of reading the whole entry, he types “Ctrl + F” and uses it to find keywords like ‘bored’ and ‘organisation’ and ‘forget.’ The first few entries bear some fruit, but nothing too substantial. However, he hasn’t even left the “A” category on the list when his breath stops and he suddenly goes, very, very quiet. 

“Everything alright?” asks Bard, leaning in. 

“I think so? I…I think I need to do some reading tonight. Something I need to research,” he says. 

Bard nods and kisses his cheek softly. 

\----------

A few hours later Bard has his nose buried in an Angela Carter novel and Bofur is still clicking away on the laptop.

He’s glad Bofur seems calmer now, and basks in the oddly tranquil background noise of the clicks and occasional typing. After a while, he starts to notice that both sounds have lessened, only to be replaced by sniffs. He glances over and is alarmed to see tears streaming down Bofur’s face. 

“Babe? What’s wrong?”

Bofur breathes in a ragged inhalation that comes out as a sob. “M’not a fuck up,” he manages to say. 

Bard slides closer to him, wraps an arm around his middle and looks at the laptop screen. 

“It all fits,” says Bofur. One of his tears drips onto Bard’s arm. There, on the screen is the title: “ADHD: Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.”

“It’s not me,” continues Bofur. “I mean, it _is_ me, but it’s not my fault.”

Bard reads the list of symptoms while Bofur tries to get his sobs under control, but still he does not let him go.

“It used to be a lot worse,” says Bofur. “Before I moved in with you, I mean.” Bard looks up at him, willing him to explain further with his eyes, and Bofur does. “I sleep better now. I used to wake up a lot in the middle of the night? And I dunno…it feels like my life has more structure now? Like I have a reason to get out of bed instead of lay in it until 1pm because I feel tired from not sleeping. I used to think it was just because I’m a massive stoner.” His breath comes out in a small huff of laughter, and he’s actually smiling a little now. “And the time stuff. And organisation. I can do it when you lay it out for me, but if I try to manage too much of my own time I overestimate how much I can do? Man, it feels so good to finally be able to explain this to someone.” He pauses. “I mean, I don’t know if I have this for _sure_ but I could? It seems to make so much sense. It makes my whole life make sense.”

“We could get a professional opinion,” Bard suggests. He sits up and wraps Bofur in his arms. 

“Yeah, that’d be good,” Bofur croaks. And then he breaks down, sobbing loudly into Bard’s chest. As if he’s pouring out decades of tension, decades of confusion.

“I’m not a fuck up,” he wheezes. “I’m not a fuck up.”

“I know you’re not. You’re brilliant. Your mind just works differently. I happen to think it’s an amazing mind, in fact. I mean, I fell in love with it. If you’re a fuck up then so am I, and you’re just going to have to deal with that,” he says, swallowing thickly. He feels Bofur smile against his chest. Bard’s T shirt is covered in tears and snot by now and he doesn’t give a damn. He just wants Bofur happy. He wants Bofur to love himself as much as Bard loves him. So he kisses Bofur’s tears away, and holds him close, and cards his hands through his hair until Bofur, exhausted, falls asleep on his chest. Bard holds him close for the entire night. 

\----------

Months later, Bard quits his job at The White Horse. It feels so good to spend more time with the kids now, and with Bofur. It’s a rainy, Autumn evening and the kids pile out of the car and into the house. 

Tilda is cawing, pretending to be a crow. She’s become obsessed with crows lately ever since she saw one steal some food from a cafeteria on a David Attenborough program. 

“I want to watch Gravity Falls!” Bain declares as he runs into the living room so he can commandeer the remote. He’s seen it at least ten times before. Sigrid retires to her room to listen to some _Within Temptation_ before dinner. “They’re pretty good,” was her understated opinion when Bofur first suggested them to her and played her some on Spotify, but she listens to them almost every day after school.

Bard smiles, and carries his shopping bags into the kitchen, intending to put away the cans of tomatoes, and dry pasta, but he stops in his tracks when he sees Bofur sat at the kitchen table and leans against the door to admire. The spill of the kitchen light illuminates him. He’s surrounded by small components and tools on the table, and he’s deep in concentration as he turns a small screwdriver.

After a while, he notices Bard his watching him and grins. “I got ten more orders for these,” he says, pointing to the small toy microkits he’s working on. 

Bard puts his shopping bags down and walks over to sit next to Bofur. 

“I’ll have ‘em finished by the end of this week and shipped out.” Bofur’s beaming, pure joy on his face. He looks so _content_.

Bard pulls him close, pulls off his hat and buries his nose and lips in his hair. “I’m so proud of you,” he mumbles softly.

“Aw, babe, I’ve been making these for a while now. They’re becoming easier and easier.” He still does this, sometimes. Downplays his achievements, but he’s getting better at it and Bard is patient with him. A lifetime of feeling damaged is bound to have an effect on a person.

“Oh no,” says Bard as he pulls back, his gaze softening as he takes in Bofur’s smile. “I was proud of you before that.”


End file.
